


returns are surely worse

by ace_corvid



Series: Halloween Countdown Ficfest 2020 [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Arguably Hurt/Comfort, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon Temporary Character Death, Gen, Introspection, Jason Todd is a Dramatic Little Shit, Jason Todd-centric, Prompt Fic, TDC Unlucky Thirteen 2020, graveyard, no beta we die like robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27109768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_corvid/pseuds/ace_corvid
Summary: Jason, for no inconceivable reason, does not like graveyards.They're dark and creepy, filled with cold spots, smothered with grief and memory- what about them's to like?. And that's not even getting into the trauma- he still feels the phantom memory of broken fingernails filled with dirt, and angel statues give him hives. The sound of his coffin breaking mingles into the echoes of his footsteps, and his ears burn with it.But seldom does one get the chance to visit their own grave. Who would he be, to pass up an opportunity like this? Not even once in a lifetime, but once in two.(alternatively; Jason Todd takes the oppurtunity to visit his own grave.)
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Series: Halloween Countdown Ficfest 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978783
Comments: 14
Kudos: 135
Collections: TDC's Unlucky Thirteen





	returns are surely worse

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: supernatural / **graveyard**
> 
> hi! welcome to the beginning of the trans dc discord server's unlucky thirteen coundown to halloween! i'll hopefully be posting until the spooky season is over, fulfilling these prompts, so i hope you enjoy!  
> i love writing jason as a snarky little shit so here he is in all his glory- have fun!
> 
> title: "Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse." From Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin.

Jason, for no inconceivable reason, does not like graveyards.

They're dark and creepy, filled with cold spots, smothered with grief and memory- what about them's to like?. And that's not even getting into the trauma- he still feels the phantom memory of broken fingernails filled with dirt, and angel statues give him hives. The sound of his coffin breaking mingles into the echoes of his footsteps, and his ears burn with it.

But seldom does one get the chance to visit their own grave. Who would he be, to pass up an opportunity like this? Not even once in a lifetime, but once in two.

Not that it's _actually_ all that seldom in the hero community. It's a bit of a problem, at this point. Do you even want to solve a problem like frequent resurrections though? Point is, capes don't really have a habit of staying put, even when it comes to the afterlife. They're all stubborn bitches. Call it being terminally incapable of doing what they're told.

But that's beside the point; Jason Todd doesn't often give up the chance to be poetic, and there's nothing more post-modern gothic than standing over the smooth grey stone of your own grave. The familiar letters of his name were inscribed into a stone, meant to last until the people who would care were gone too, but here he is, standing over it, hands shoved into his pocket. And although he appreciates he atmosphere of it all, he isn't all that interested in rhapsodising like he was reincarnated as Hemingway right now, when he wasn't even lucky enough to be reincarnated as himself.

He's here for the solitude. If there was one place he was guaranteed to be alone, it was here. Bruce had no need for Jason's grave when he has a monument to his grief walking around shooting people, not to mention his little shrine to a child soldier in his cave to comfort him.

The Bats are all intolerable this time of year. They're intolerable in general, but _especially_ now. Even the thought of their pitying looks is enough to give him indigestion. It's never different, and although he supposes he could hope it would be, he's never been one to bet on a losing dog. Not since he died, at least.

With that comforting thought, Jason lit up a cigarette, took a long drag to steady the tremors in his hands and pushed the notion of it out of his head with an irritable scowl. All these years and he still hates the smell of smoking, but the nicotine is just what he needed for a little burst of calm.

What is one supposed to do at a graveyard, really? Who is there to mourn in an empty grave? The ghost of who he used to be, perhaps. Maybe he could find it within himself to feel something for him, but really, that's who _Bruce_ misses and yearns for. Jason can't grieve someone he used to be, when he's forgotten the shape of it all, how it felt to be that way. He _cannot_ miss it, he does not remember, really. The dead boy is an alien, unfamiliar, and yet it is still him.

His sigh's visible in the cool crisp air of fall, the year-round cold bite of Gotham lingering in the air.

Maybe coming here had been a mistake. Maybe stomaching the Bats would've been better than being alone on a day like this.

Most kids just have birthday's after all; Jason got a deathday at just 15. But this anniversary didn't have cards and cake, and was rather marked on a calendar with sombre silences and Bruce's fucking longing looks. Jason would prefer the cake. How often would you get a cake quite like that?

Jason remembers, being younger, looking forward to his mother buying a cake for his birthday all year round. It was a child's preference to sweetness, the innocent love of simple Victoria Sponge cake. Alfred's creations had always been much more decadent, but still at their core that same allure.

Jason hadn't really had much cake since he'd known the touch of a grave. He preferred much more bitter tastes these days. He was more bitter _himself_. (But if he still thought chilli dogs were one of the pure uncorrupted goods in the world then that's no one's business but his own.)

Not everyone comes back, but fewer come back as wrong as he did. Sometimes he wonders if he even should have; maybe it might have been better if he'd never come back at all, if he was going to come back as a picture of vengeance hell bent on tarnishing his own memory.

He swore under his breath as rain started to fall around him. Fucking typical. What did he even expect from fucking Gotham other than some real pathetic fallacy shit- though this probably came closer to just plain pathetic, to be fair.

He was beginning to feel like a real pretentious asshole, actually, standing over his own damn grave in the rain. It wasn't like he was even close to being the most dramatic person in his family. Surely Bruce could out-angst this.

He stands in the rain for just a little while longer, shoving his hood up so that he doesn't overly resemble a drowned rat, before finally doing what he came here to do.

He puts down the flowers- orchid rockroses. It was Catherine's favourite flower, and what used to be Jason's, before he became more partial to red things, like poppies, and the blood of his enemies. (Maybe he is as dramatic as Bruce, actually.)

It's not quite mourning, for the little boy who's grave was empty now. It's not quite respect for what little a legacy he had. But perhaps a mix of the two. And now that his family sees him in the curve of Jason's face, the break in his nose, the gap in his teeth and the warmth in his laugh, well; someone has to remember him as he was.

He puts his cigarette out on Sheila Haywood's unkept grave, frustratingly next to his- he thanks Bruce every day that he had the common sense not to bury them together. Resisting the urge to break her headstone, he began the walk to the only other grave in here worth seeing for him.

He sits next to Catherine's headstone, idly chatting to empty space until it drops dark, and he sees a figure in the distance.

A figure next to  _his_ grave.

Who mourns a dead man standing?

Jason doesn't even know why he bothers asking. Of course it's Bruce.

He debates going over and very quickly decides that as much as he doesn't want to, he probably should. The man is just standing in the rain, like a total loser. It's bucketing it down at this point, and the man has a warm house and a warmer family to be at home with.

“You come here often?” Jason says, swinging his legs over his own headstone to sit on it.

Bruce very visibly suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.

“This is where you've been, then?” He growls (but not like, a Batman growl. More a tired dad grumble.)

“Who do you think left the flowers?” Jason pretends to be hurt.

“I had been wondering.” Bruce replies, eyeing the ash mark on Sheila's grave. Jason grins shamelessly. He allows himself to be petty in small doses. “What are you doing here?”

Jason shrugged aimlessly. “Thought someone had to come.”

“You thought I wouldn't?”

“I thought there was a good chance. I'm alive, for all it's worth- the only person who needs to mourn me is myself.” Jason splayed out his arms obnoxiously, like the graveyard was a stage and he was the lone actor. “Should've figured you'd never miss out on a golden opportunity to self-flagellate.”

Bruce sighed, then moved to sit on Sheila's grave. Jason smothered the grin that threatened to rise the minute he realised his own face was moving against him.

“I still mourn you.” Bruce said so awkwardly Jason felt like he'd bitten on a lemon.

“I'm right here, Bruce.”

“I know. But you're my son. I'll never stop grieving-” Bruce cut himself off. “You were 15, Jaylad. You were only 15.”

“Well, you know what they say.” Jason chuckled darkly. “Only the good die young.”

“What do they say about the ones that come back?” Bruce asked wryly.

“No rest for the wicked, of course.” Jason pushed himself of the grave, grimacing when he nearly trod on the flowers. “Let's go home.”

Bruce knit his eyebrows together. “You want to come back to the manor?”

“Sure. Take me home, Bruce. I assume you brought the car? It'll be a lot less wet than the motorcycle.”

“When will you come back for it?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Do you make your way here often?”

“No, I'll bully Dick into driving me down tomorrow.” Jason breathed in the cold air, nearly as evidence he was breathing. “There's nothing left here for me.”

Jason kicked Sheila's grave, because hey, life was about the small victories. He lit another cigarette, much to Bruce's ever constant consternation, before he sauntered over to the gate, Bruce a measure behind him. Jason was so tall next to him now, but it wasn't jarring any more. It felt natural.

It was a new life, after all. And dead men wait for no one.

**Author's Note:**

> ahhh i hope you liked it! i tried getting a little adventurous in the prose in this one, and i also just found the idea of jason getting petty with sheila's grave really funny
> 
> you can find me at:  
> Tumblr: ace-corvid.tumblr.com  
> Twitter: twitter.com/ace_corvid  
> come yell at me!
> 
> thank you so much for reading, see you next time! And if you enjoyed this, a comment would really make my day!


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